When you
write your story it becomes writ and the legend will live on. —
Vonna Firehair. Questor of Astendar

Pelgar’s
Council
“Yes, yes, come sit with me a while for there is much to tell of
the Heroes of Daralon. I’ve had my fill of council issues today
so this will be a welcome distraction. Yes of course, please do help yourself
to the wine, it’s sweet yet refreshing. Now where to start? Oh I
would sip it if I were you it’s somewhat stronger than it initially
seems. Right where was I? So do you know much of the world above? Ney?
Barsiave! A land once rife with greenery, lush and verdant, of fine cities
and sprawling communities living off the wealthy bounty Barsiave would
offer. Rolling hills, soaring peaks, open plains, meandering rivers, all
at peace with Barsiave and it’s Name-givers, it’s peoples.
That is until the circle of magic turned once more and the rift was opened
spilling untold monstrosities into our beloved lands. Yes that’s
right, the Scourge, as it has become known to most of the name-giving
races, beset upon our world by the powerful loosing of magic. I still
say that had the reckless use of magic been curbed greatly by those in
power that this great atrocity would never have happened, but freely all
manner of name-givers flung magical powers about as if they were a wooden
training sword in the hands of an over enthusiastic child.
Do pardon my digression and lets get some air in here.
Arrhhh there much better, it almost feels fresh compared to this stuffy
room after slaving through council writs all day."

............To
Be Continued

Skars
Stones

Alone
on the hillside, Berek knelt in the dirt. Before him lay his great war-hammer
and ‘Skar’s Stones’ – The small rocks the lizard
had inscribed with fake runes of power.
The Obsidiman finished stringing the stones onto a piece of twine and
donned his new necklace. He dug both huge hands into the mother earth
and lifted them high above his head letting the soil slowly cascade down
upon his shoulders. “Never again will I fail to defend a companion,”
he whispered to the wind. Almost in reply the wind picked up. A storm
was approaching from the south.
Footsteps approached from behind. “Time to go,” said Tal placing
a hand on Berek’s shoulder.
Reluctantly Berek got to his feet, hefting the great war-hammer onto his
shoulder and climbed the hill to the Midland trading post where the horses
waiting